Barney seized the small square of brass, crossed to the coat-room, and returned with the dripping garment, which he held up to the light at the window.
"You ought to find Poole's name under the collar, and my own inside the breast-pocket," remarked Chubby encouragingly. "It's there, isn't it?"
Conville threw the soaked object over a chair-back and made a rapid inspection, then turned to McAllister with an expression of bewilderment.
"I—you—how—" he stammered.
"Don't you remember," laughed his tormentor, "that there was a big truck on the corner of Sixth Avenue?"
Barney set his teeth.
"I see you do," continued McAllister. "Well, what more can I do for you? Are you sure you won't have that drink?"
But Conville was in no mood for drinking. Stepping up to the clubman, he looked searchingly down into his face.
"Mr. McAllister," he hissed, "you think you've got me criss-crossed. You think you're a sure winner. But I know you. I know your face. And this time I don't lose you, see? You're in cahoots with Welch. You're his side-partner. You'll see me again. Remember, you're a common felon."
The detective made for the door.